


Experience

by Sigridhr



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After stopping in a small village to find some work, Thorin meets a young woman who offers him more than he expects. (Also known as, smut, and nothing but).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Hobbit-kink fill based on the following prompt: _Thorin giving a woman her first orgasm. The more explicit the better. Preferably a human woman, but I'm not that picky._

It was, in all respects, a pitiful and entirely unfitting caravan. They travelled like vagabonds, wandering aimlessly across the land, as scattered as the remnants of their pride.

"That looks likely," said Balin, more cheerful than Thorin felt at the prospect of setting up camp in yet another filthy, human village.

"It reeks even from here," said Thorin, acidly.

"Of opportunities for work," Balin said, placatingly. "We need money, Thorin."

Thorin grunted noncommittally, and turned to look over the town once more. "Very well," he said, at last. "We'll see if there's work to be done here."

Balin nodded, and looked back over his shoulder, calling out, "Lads! We're stopping here."

"There had better be ale," muttered Dwalin. "And not that usual cat-piss they try to pass off. I'm parched."

Thorin let out a low snort of contempt. "Do not hold your breath."

…

The air in the tavern was thick and heavy with the smell of smoke and stale sweat. There was indeed ale, and Dwalin pronounced it slightly better than watery cat-piss.

But more importantly, there was work. The hinges on the door of the tavern needed replacing, and, after Thorin had announced his fees and pulled out samples of their craftsmanship, they had no shortage of orders to keep them occupied.

"We're heading back," said Balin, looking at his brother in a mixture of amusement and vexation. "Dwalin's had enough cat-piss for both of us."

Dwalin snorted. "It gets better, the longer you drink it. Either that, or I've just lost the ability to taste altogether."

Thorin's lips curved upwards in a smile that – had it been on anyone else's face, Balin would have called _fond_.

"I will remain, in case any further requests are to be made. You go on ahead."

Balin gave him a once over, before nodding and pulling his brother up by the arm. "We'll see you on the morrow, Thorin."

Thorin inclined his head to them as the parted, and picked up Dwalin's pint, taking an experimental sniff. He grimaced – it certainly _smelt_ horrid. He was hit by a wave of nostalgia for the warm, honeyed ale of Erebor, the smell of roast meats and the crackle of lamps, and the singing of great songs that echoed in the wells of his grandfather's halls, that seemed to reverberate until the early hours of the morning when all had taken to their beds.

And now – now he was nothing more than a parody. A toymaker, a rude and unnoticed blacksmith, in a filthy human tavern, the fur of his greatcoat resting upon a bench shared by peasants and farmers.

A soft sound to his left dragged him abruptly out of his thoughts. To his great surprise, it was a girl. He could see the early bloom of adulthood in her fresh face, her eyes were bright and her fingers, which were absentmindedly wringing the fabric of her gown, were long and lithe.

"I am sorry to disturb you," she said. "But I had heard you were taking on projects for your smithy."

He inclined his head, and gestured for her to take a seat.

She smiled, albeit a bit nervously, and took a seat across from him. "I am to be married in four days," she said.

Thorin was surprised by the abrupt change of subject, but he simply sat back and stared at her, frowning slightly. She blushed, looking down at her lap and stammered. "I am sorry – It's only, I had hoped to purchase a gift, for my husband-to-be, and, I had thought… His horse needs new shoes, and the town hasn't a decent blacksmith, and I had wondered if you might take on a project to make some for me."

"I can pay you, of course."

"Very well," said Thorin. "I will need your name – half payment upfront, the other half upon completion. You can collect them the day after tomorrow."

 

"Rosa," she said, holding out a hand.

He looked at her in astonishment, and she pulled her hand back quickly and placed it back her lap. "I'm dreadfully sorry," she said. "I haven't any manners. What is your name?"

"I am Thorin, son of Thráin," he said, imperiously. He wasn't surprised when she had no reaction to his name, or his father's. The line of Dúrin was not known in this part of the world. But he would be lying if he said it didn't still cut. There had been a time when his name was known to everyone.

"So, why are you here? I mean, we're such a small village. Are you passing through on your way somewhere?"

"Do you not have somewhere else to be?" Thorin asked, more rudely than was perhaps warranted.

Her face fell, and she stood jerkily. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I will bring you payment tomorrow – for the horseshoes." And, with that she turned on her heel, walking quickly out of the tavern, her head down.

Thorin sighed. He had never been one to fall over himself for the charms of a woman – and certainly not a _human_ one. But there was something about the girl, with her unkempt enthusiasm, and guileless but persistent questioning, and the hurt he'd seen written plain across her face, that dug at him. With a scowl, he stood, and followed her out of the tavern.

He didn't have to go far – she was leaning against a fencepost up the lane, lit by the faint light of the stars.

He cleared his throat, and she jumped back, spinning around and catching herself on the fence. "Oh, it's you," she said.

Now that he was confronted with it, he realised he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He was certainly _not_ here to apologise. But if not that, then what was he to say? The silence grew heavy and awkward between them, and he saw her began to fidgit nervously, her hands wringing her dress again in what he guessed was a nervous habit.

"Was there something you wanted?" she asked.

"Your fiancé, what is his name?" Thorin found himself asking, much to his own surprise.

She gave an odd, wistful smile. "Tom," she said. "He's… well, he's much older than I am. But he's the son of the tanner, and he has good money. Mum says I'm lucky to be married at all, really. I haven't much to recommend me. I'm always sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong, or saying things I oughtn't…" She trailed off awkwardly.

"You gave me no offense," said Thorin, in a conciliatory tone.

She let out a loud huff of air. "Well that's a bloody relief," she said. "I'd never met a Dwarf before. I was worried I'd gone and offended me first one."

Thorin's lips turned up in a smile, and he stepped forward to lean against the fence, leaving a decent amount of space between them, looking out into the pasture.

"I saw your caravan come in," she said. "We don't get many visitors around here – least of all interesting ones. Mum'd have a right bird if she found out I'd spoken to you."

"Would she indeed?" Thorin said, softly.

"She's always saying I should keep my nose down and out of trouble. But you don't look much like trouble to me."

Thorin turned, looking up at her. "What do I look like to you?" he asked.

She frowned, and looked away, her fingers fidgiting on the fence as she tapped out a nonsense rhythm. "You look like freedom," she said. "I don't want to spend the rest of me life in this place. You – your dress, your horses, you're all foreign. You come from bigger and better things than this place'll ever be."

"You do not wish to stay here?"

She blew a strand of her hair out of her face in an uncooth move he'd seen his nephews do – and get scolded for – more than once. He very nearly chuckled. "I don't have much of a choice. I'm to be married, remember?"

"What is he like, this Tom of yours?"

She snorted. "He's not really mine – I'm his. That's how brideprice works, isn't it?" She scowled down at the ground, shuffling her feet. "He's a good man. He's kind enough, and he works hard. He's not, well, he's not the handsomest, nor the brightest. But he'll do well by me, and for that I'm grateful."

"Grateful," Thorin echoed.

"Yes," she said, turning to him and sticking her chin out, stubbornly. " _Grateful_. In time I could come to love him."

"And to love living here?" he asked, gesturing with one broad, gloved hand out over the pastures, dumpy buildings and filthy walkways of the village.

"I'll have to," she said, resolutely. "I expect meeting you is the most adventure I'll ever get."

Thorin was acutely aware that this was a turning point. That he ought to bid her goodnight and walk away, and send her off to her boring tanner husband, to be a boring tanner's wife and have boring tanner children. But there was something about her, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, that reminded him of bigger and better things – and of home.

He ought to have left. Instead, he said, "Well, then I expect I ought to make the experience worth remembering."

She frowned at him in bemusement. "What do you mean?"

"Come," he said, offering her a hand. "Let us broaden your horizons."

She studied him for a moment, wary and, for the first time, unfidgiting. Then, she reached out and placed her slim hand in his.

They walked in silence, as Thorin searched for a sufficiently secluded copse of trees. He'd've prefered the tavern, or the camp – but he wasn't fool enough to bring an engaged woman into a small town tavern and have his way with her, at least, not before he'd been paid for his work. And he wasn't about to announce his intentions to the camp either. That would have lead to questions he wasn't prepared to face answering.

He found one, at last, and took off his greatcoat, laying it down upon the ground. Then, he gestured for her to follow.

She swallowed, and looked nervously from him to the ground and back again. "I should not do this."

"I will not force you," said Thorin. "I am only offering."

"If I am found… If I am found not to be whole on my wedding day…"

"If that is your only concern, it is easily dealt with," Thorin said, shrugging.

She frowned. "It is?" She looked at him again, searching his face for assurance. Then, surprisingly quick, she stepped forward, took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was rougher than he would have liked – his teeth clacked against hers with the force of it, and her fingers were gripping the side of his face so tightly he could feel them pressing into the bones. She was still, as if she wasn't sure what to do next.

Slowly, coaxingly, he placed his hands on her waist, running them up and down the curved line of her bodice. Her hands softened, and he, gently, ran his tongue along her bottom lip. She jolted at that, her nose bumping clumsily into his cheek and her lips parting enough for him to slip his tongue inside.

One of her hands tangled in his hair, clenching into a tight fist, and he could feel her trembling in his arms.

From a _kiss_. Great Aulë, he had known she was unwed, but _this_? He thought, sadly, that her husband was likely to be a source of great disappointment.

She was awkward, all long limbs and elbows, like a newborn deer, and she clung to him tightly. Their kisses were sloppy and wet, and she kept bumping her nose against his face in her enthusiasm. Slowly, like he was calming a frightened animal, he ran soothing hands along her sides, across her back, her neck, and into her hair.

Then, he broke the kiss. "Lie back on the ground," he said.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Nothing you won't enjoy," he replied. "Lie back."

She dropped down to the ground and scuttled back, smoothing out her skirts in a nervous motion and leaning back on her elbows to look up at him. He stripped himself of his armour, leaving only a tunic and breeches, and crouched down in front of her.

He leant forwards, resting his hands on the ground on either side of her breast, and kissed her again. Then, slowly, he began to trail kisses down her neck, behind her ear, to her collarbone. She gasped, and the sound seemed loud and wanton in the cool night air.

He went to the laces of her dress, pulling them apart with quick, practiced moves. She was watching him, the rise and fall of her chest rapid, and her cheeks flushed. He looked at her, with her lips parted and her eyes wide, and gave a final tug, ripping the laces and the bodice off in a single motion. She jolted, and looked back at him, licking her lips.

He bent down, his hair fanning out over her shoulders and chest, and closed his mouth over her nipple, sucking at it through the thin linen of her chemise. She cried out, arching back, her legs coming up to settle around his hips. He swirled his tongue around the tip, and sucked, and he felt her thighs squeeze tight around his hips.

He sat up, rocking back on his heels, and slipped his fingers under the hem of her skirt, hiking it up. He ran his hands up her thighs, pushing her skirt up as he went, until the fabric was gathered around her waist. She pushed herself back up on her elbows, watching him.

He gave a wide grin, and then bent down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh. She gasped, squirming away, but his hands clamped down on her waist and held her still.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You have asked that I leave you intact," he said. "But I will not leave you unpleasured. _Trust_ me."

She was frowning, breathing quickly and looking worried. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going to see what you taste like," he replied, running his hands up the inside of her thighs until he reached her sex. Gently, he ran his thumb over her inner labia. It was warm, and slick, he he saw her eyes flutter closed as she bit her lip. Slowly, teasingly, he ran his thumb up and down once more, before coming up to swipe a low, languid circle over her clit.

" _Oh_ ," she said, in a low, breathy voice. He felt his own cock twitch, and he made a personal, private vow to make her say 'oh' _precisely_ like that as many times as he possibly could.

He circled her clit with this thumb once more, watching her face as she clenched her eyes shut and bit her lip. Then, slowly he bent down and licked a long, wet stripe along her folds. She fell back, her hand going to his head and clenching in his hair, and her legs coming up to rest on his shoulders. He repeated the action, penetrating her with his tongue, and then coming back up to take her clit in his mouth and give it a gentle suck.

She arched back, gasping, her hand clenched tightly in his hair, and her heels digging into his back. He swirled his tongue over her clit in an even circle, and he felt her hips begin to cant upwards, rocking in time with the pace of his tongue. He slipped on finger inside her, curling it back towards him and stroking her.

She made a high keening sound, tugging at his hair, and covered her mouth with her free hand.

He could feel her muscles clenching around his finger, and he sucked her clit once more, running his tongue over it in time with the rhythmic thrusting of her hips. He could feel her, drawing closer and closer to the edge, her body drawing tight as a bowstring as she made soft, breathy moans that made him want to forget his promise and simply _take_ her, fiancé or no.

And then she came apart, shuddering. Her legs grew heavy over his shoulders, as he gave one last gentle kiss to her clit, and sat up, pulling his finger out slowly. She blinked up at him, lazy and sated.

Slowly, he brought his finger up to his mouth and licked it clean, and she watched him, wide-eyed and shaking.

"Is it always like that?" she asked.

His eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. "It depends," he said. "On who your partner is."

She frowned, and then sat up, reaching for him. "What should I do?" she asked.

He caught her hands in his. "Nothing," he said. "I require nothing."

"I _want_ to," she said. "I want to do –" She pulled her hands from his, and ran her hand along the line of his jaw. Then she leant forwards and pressed her lips to his, more gently this time. Nervously, she pressed kisses along the line of his jaw, behind his ear and down to his collarbone – and Thorin noted, with mixed fondness and amusement, that she was echoing his own movements earlier. He placed his hands on her waist, revelling in the softeness of her curves, and the warmth of her skin.

He felt her hands slip under the hem of his tunic, and pull it up over his head. She sat back, looking at him curiously for a moment, before reaching out to rest her hand just above his heart. Then, slowly, she trailed her hand down to the laces of his breeches.

"You do not have to do this," he said, swallowing hard.

"I told you," she said. "I want to."

Her fingers were nimble as they undid the laces, and he obligingly lifted his hips to allow her to slip his breeches down. He was fully erect already, and he saw her freeze as she looked down at him.

Gently, he took her hand in his, and wrapped it around the head of his cock. Then, slowly, he ran their clasped hands up and down its length. He was surprised when she batted his hand away, and clasped him again, her grip firm as she echoed his movements precisely.

He reached out to grip her shoulder, running his hand up to cradle the back of her neck and her cheek, as he leant forwards.

"Faster," he said, his voice low and gruff, and she nodded, increasing the pace. He groaned, and leaned forward to rest his forehead in the soft curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. He placed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone, and she shifted closer to him straddling his knee to get a better angle. She ran her thumb over the head of his cock and his hand clenched on the back of her neck, the other tightening around her waist.

His hips canted up into the sweet grip of her hand, and his breath was hot against her skin. There was nothing but the cool breeze of the night, the warmth of her skin, and the heavy scent of sex. He came with a low cry, his face pressed against her neck and his hand tangled in her hair. Her hand came up to cradle the back of his head, gently stroking his hair as he shuddered against her.

When he sat back, she was looking down at her hand, rubbing her fingers together curiously.

He chuckled, and ripped a strip from the bottom of his tunic. "Here," he said, tossing it to her. "Wipe off with that."

Instead, however, she cautiously, and curiously brought her fingers up to her mouth and licked them clean.

His mouth went dry as he watched her, and he was struck by the sudden, mad desire to simply grab her and leave town – to take her with them. Then she grimaced, and wiped her hand off with an apologetic smile.

She stood up, grabbing the remains of her bodice and fussing with the laces, trying to do it back up.

"I am sorry," he said.

"It's no matter," she replied. "I can sneak in the window – mother won't see."

He nodded, rising and dressing himself. She bent down and picked up his greatcoat, and handed it to him.

"Thank you," she said, a touch awkwardly. "I hadn't – I'm glad I met you."

He inclined his head towards her, taking the coat from her hands. "And I you."

"I will see you tomorrow then," she said. "For the shoes?"

"Tomorrow," he echoed. "You had best go first. I will leave after."

She nodded, and then seemed to debate something for a moment. Then, she stepped forwards and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, before darting off into the night.


End file.
